The Most Amazing Man Who Ever Lived (33 page)

‘It
wasn’t your fault.’

‘We
don’t even know anything about his family. We don’t know who to tell.’

Cornelius
patted his chum on the shoulder. ‘I don’t know what to say,’ he said.

‘Let’s
gather up his pieces.’

‘Would
you prefer to do it by yourself?’ Cornelius asked hopefully.

‘No,
I’d like you to help me.

They
trudged dismally down the little dune. ‘Shall I do the small pieces?’ Tuppe
asked.

‘Whichever
you prefer. You wouldn’t rather I just dug the hole?’

‘No,’
said Tuppe.

‘Fair
enough.’

Boris
wasn’t overly scattered. Trotters (no hooves, sorry!), woolly tail. And the
head!

The
main carcass was intact. No bowels hanging out, or anything. Cornelius stooped
down, ran his hand over the scorched wool, gave the body a little pat.

‘Is it
safe to come out now?’ the body asked. ‘This
power armour
[24]
gets the
job done. But I’ve a right headache again.’

‘Tuppe!’
Cornelius jumped up. Jumped up and down. ‘He’s alive, Tuppe. He’s alive.’

‘Eh,
what?’ The small fellow had the sheep’s head in his hands and was peering into
its empty husk.

‘He’s
safe, he’s alive.’

‘I am,’
agreed Boris, struggling out of his protective torso. ‘Oh great!’ Tuppe came
stumbling over. He embraced Boris. ‘You’re alive. You’re alive.’

‘Leave
it out,’ said the Magoman. ‘Don’t kiss me please.’

‘But
you’re alive!’

‘Yes, I
know I am. ‘What is that funny noise?’

‘Probably
my stomach,’ said Tuppe. ‘It’s a while since I’ve eaten.’

‘No,
not
that
fanny noise. I meant
that
funny noise .

And
that
funny noise wasn’t really all that funny. It was more of a hideous growling
noise. A hideous, mechanical growling noise.

‘It’s
the Jeep!’ Cornelius stared in horror as the mashed-about vehicle rose up over
the dune, a-growling and a-roaring, the latest victim of MCD.

‘Did
someone say run?’ Boris asked.

‘Me, I
think,’ said Tuppe. ‘Help, Cornelius.’

And the
tall boy gathered up the short boy and, in the company of Boris, ran.

Hugo ‘Rune never ran. He
strode sometimes. Sauntered often. Sat mostly and slept a good deal.

Had he
been sleeping now it is more than probable that his dream would have involved a
marble bath-tub, perfumed water, a certain missing equation and a violent
knocking upon his bedroom door.

But
Rune wasn’t sleeping.

He was
organizing.

Something
that he excelled at.

Though
preferably while seated.

And
thus he was seated now. Upon the mayoral throne, looted from Skelington Bay
Town Hall. He wore the Mayor’s cloak of office. And his chain. And his hat.

The
throne was strapped onto the turret of a Sherman Tank. Rune had commandeered a
loud hailer and through this he was ‘organizing’.

Gathered
around the tank were several hundred people. Most were clad in holiday attire,
stragglers from the great forced-march, or those who had chosen to remain in
hiding. All rounded up by the militia men of Chunky’s private army. A private
army now under the sole command of Hugo Rune.

‘This
entire area is now under martial law,’ called Rune. ‘Your choice is this:
engage in a couple of hours’ work for me, or be shot as looters. Those in
favour of the first option, raise your hands.’ Most, but not all, hands rose
upon the instant.

‘I
assume that the dissenters choose to be shot,’ called Rune.

‘You
can’t treat us like this,’ shouted a lady in a straw hat. ‘This is England
after all.’

‘I see,
would you be so kind as to step forward, madam.’

The
lady in the straw hat stepped forward from the crowd.

Rune
raised a great hand towards the sky, then brought it down, forefinger angled to
the hat of straw.

A dark
shape dropped from on high. Bat-like wings and cruel claws. A stench of
sulphur, flickering forked tongue about an eagle’s beak. Talons caught hold.
The lady screamed. The crowd drew back screaming and crying. Wings beat upon
the air. The lady was drawn up, howling for mercy, carried high, away. Towards
the sea.

‘That’s
the third option,’ called Rune. ‘Have to hurry you now.

‘Hurry!’ Cornelius plunged
towards the cliffs, Boris plunged too. Behind them, roaring like a beast, the
Jeep lurched, trailing its exhaust pipe, back tyres shredded, rims grinding.

‘Ooof!’
went Boris, falling flat on his face.

‘Come
on, my friend,’ Cornelius turned, ducked, snatched up Boris, rolled to one
side. The Jeep hurtled past, inches to spare, bowel-loosening stuff.

‘Up the
cliffs,’ cried Cornelius. ‘Come on, Boris, hurry.’

‘Hurry,
the man says.’ Boris scrambled up, the Jeep came about once more, stood,
roaring and snorting like a bull. Preparing for the charge.

Cornelius
gained the cliff. High cliff. Overhanging cliff. Chalk cliff. The tall boy dug
in his fingers. Tried to climb. Chalk fell away. The tall boy fell with it.

‘Ouch!’
wailed Tuppe, as the tall boy fell on him.

Roar,
Roar, Roar,
went the Jeep, revving its engine.

‘Give
us a leg up the cliff,’ implored Boris.

‘I
don’t think this cliff can be climbed,’ gasped Cornelius. ‘You don’t have a ray
gun on you, by any chance, I suppose.’

‘Ray
gun,’ said Boris. ‘Now that’s a thought.’

‘Then
you
do?’

‘No I
don’t. But it
is
a thought, isn’t it?’

Roar,
Roar, Roar,
and then
Rush.

Shredded
tyres flailing like whips. Blue fists of exhaust smoke. Grinding metal,
shuddering and shaking, snarling and shrieking. The Jeep shot forwards.

‘Oooooooooh!’
Cornelius caught up Boris and Tuppe and prepared for an impossible leap.

The
Jeep tore towards them. Yards were in it. Feet. Then inches. Then nothing.

Horrible
contact. Mangling, rending. Destructive. Unholy.

So
very, very nasty.

The
concussion was such as to bring down an avalanche of cliff. Rumbling boulders
and crests of chalk descended in a thunderous cascade, burying the Jeep and
stifling its roars.

For
ever. A big silence fell upon the now deserted beach.

‘Phew,’
said Tuppe. ‘That was close.’

‘Only
inches in it,’ said Cornelius.

‘Thought
we were done for there,’ said Boris.

‘What
intrigues me,’ said Tuppe, ‘is,
how in the name of Babylon’s Whore are we
hovering up in the sky?’

‘Flying
boots,’ said Boris. ‘Issued as standard to the air corps in case you have to
bail out. Hang onto me now, stay within the telekinetic field.’

‘Telekinetic
field?’ Cornelius asked, as the three drifted down towards the sand.

‘Did I
mention to you about the trans-perambulation of pseudo-cosmic anti-matter?’

‘Once,
in passing. I should have listened more carefully.’

‘Still,
here we are.’ And the three bumped down onto solid ground.

‘Thank
you very much,’ said Cornelius.

‘Yeah,’
said Tuppe. ‘And then some.’

‘My
pleasure, lads. Lucky Cornelius mentioned ray guns, I’d quite forgotten about
my boots.’

Tuppe
cast frightened glances towards the big pile of fallen cliff. ‘Is it safe now,
do you think?’

‘Let us
depart in haste,’ said Cornelius Murphy. ‘We have much to do.’

‘Can I
come with you?’ Boris asked. ‘I don’t have much to do at all, now the undersea
joy-riding’s finished and everything.’

‘Of
course you can,’ said Tuppe.

‘Of
course he can’t,’ said Cornelius. ‘He’s not involved in any of this, we can’t
put him in such danger.’

‘Such
danger, eh?’ Boris whistled. ‘Well, perhaps I’ll catch you blokes later. I’ve
been thinking anyway. I may have lost my saucer, but if I can still go ahead
and have my meeting, pass on the advanced technological secrets of my race, in
exchange for a signed deal to leave the people of Magonia in peace, I could
walk home across the sea bed. Everything will be OK.’

Tuppe
opened his mouth to speak.

Cornelius
didn’t let him. ‘I thought you’d missed your meeting,’ he said.

‘Yeah,
but as chance would have it, I’ve heard that the chap I was supposed to meet is
still right here.’

‘Still
right
here?’

‘Yeah,
I heard it from a prawn, who got it off a whelk who’d overheard two seagulls
talking about something a pigeon told them.’

‘You
can’t argue with that kind of evidence,’ said Tuppe.

‘So like
I say,’ Boris went on, ‘he’s still here, so I can still have my meeting with
him.’

‘Who is
this person?’ Cornelius asked.

‘Well,
I shouldn’t really say. After all, it is a secret. But you blokes are mates,
so…‘ Boris did furtive glances to right and left. ‘Your King,’ he said.

‘Our
King?’
asked Tuppe.

‘King
Hugo,’ said Boris proudly. ‘King Hugo Rune of England.’

Now a King if a good King he shall be

must give his subjects liberty.

(Who wrote that?)

There
was no hint of liberty around and about the court of King Hugo. Up on the downs
that flowed inland above Skelington Bay, hundreds toiled. Blowtorch flames
tongued through girders, bulldozers prised pylons from their mounts,
high-tension cables snapped and whiplashed.

One
after another the pylons fell, almost with the dignity of trees. But not quite.
Jagged steel arms penetrated the soil, creak and crash. Chains and trucks,
bulldozers and people-power. Inch by inch, yard by yard.

‘Faster,’
cried Rune through the loud hailer. ‘We have a deadline to meet. A
deadline.’

And
someone tripped and fell. But no-one dared to stop and lend a hand. They turned
away their faces, though they could not shield their ears, as the churning
wheels and steely tracks ground on their way and stifled screams. And crushed
out life. Without a shred of pity.

‘Faster,’
Rune cried. ‘One less to pull, the harder each of you must try.’

And
dark shapes circled in the sky above. The clock ticked on towards the hour of
four.

And
most of Sussex now lacked for electrical power.

‘Electrical what?’

‘Like I
said.’

‘But he
can’t.’

‘But he
will.’

‘But
then he’ll—’

‘I know
he will.’

‘Then
we— ‘Yes, we must.’

‘More
coffee, anyone?’ Tuppe asked. ‘More beans on toast?’

‘Yes,’
said Cornelius. ‘Thank you. ‘But then I—’ said Boris.

‘You,’
said Cornelius. ‘And he was— ‘I know he was.’

‘Then
we certainly must—’

‘You’re
quite right there.’

‘Exactly
what
are
you talking about?’ Tuppe asked. ‘And where are we, in case
anyone should ask.’

‘As
you
know full well,’ said Cornelius. ‘We are on a twenty-foot motor yacht
called
The Lovely Lynne,
which Boris kindly swam round the next bay to
and slipped from its moorings.’

‘I
don’t like the swirly-whirly carpet tiles on the floor much,’ said Tuppe. ‘But
carry on anyway.

‘I have
just been telling Boris about “King” Hugo’s plan.’

‘And I
have been being appalled,’ said Boris. ‘As King Hugo’s plan will clearly lead
to the extinction of my race.

‘What I
want to know,’ said Tuppe, ‘and I am probably not alone in this, is how Hugo
Rune came to make contact with your race in the first place, Boris.’

‘Apparently
he heard tell of our existence from a pet pigeon, who’d overheard two seagulls
talking about something a whelk told them he’d got from a prawn.’

‘Obvious,’
said Tuppe. ‘I knew there was a simple explanation.’

‘He
came down in a bathysphere; brought a lot of beads with him, apparently. Said
he’d come in peace for all mankind.’

‘In
exchange for your advanced technology.’

‘As
soon as he realized we had it.’

‘And so
what were you supposed to do for him at this meeting then?’